The Definition of Friends
by fiona d
Summary: After taking Weevil in following his expulsion from the PCHers, Logan reflects on their complicated relationship.


Author's Note: Just a little missing scene from post - "Rashard and Wallace Go To White Castle".

Logan had just putted for a birdie on the ninth hole of _Hot Shots_ when his cell phone rang. He frowned at the name on the call display wondering what he'd be doing calling him at one o'clock in the morning.

"Listen Weevs, I don't know how it is on your side of town, but on mine it's rude to call after midnight."

A rasping, painful sounding breath answered him.

"Weevil? Are – "

"Echolls," Weevil cut in. "I need you to come get me."

For about half a second Logan wanted to give him a hard time, but he knew that Weevil would have to be pretty fucking desperate to call him for help so he let it go. "Where are you?"

"Behind the warehouse on Pier 39."

Pier 39 had a well-earned reputation for crime and violence. And for bodies being taken away from there by the coroner. "Are you alone or should I keep the engine running."

"I'm alone."

"I'll be right there."

The reason that Logan let Weevil take Chardo away after the whole Caitlin Ford mess was that Logan knew the PCHers could mess him up way more than Logan's gang could and still keep him alive. Keeping him alive was important. It would be more painful in the end.

Logan and his gang had worked Weevil over a couple months ago and he'd looked pretty rough by the time they were through. That was nothing compared to how he looked when Logan found him behind Pier 39. One side of his face was so swollen that he couldn't even see the eye. Blood was caked on his hairline and around his nose and mouth. When he tried to stand up he clutched his side and fell to one knee.

"Jesus, man. What the hell happened?"

"What's it look like?"

"Like you got hit by a Hummer. Or like you got into a fight with a gang of bikers and lost." He helped Weevil to his feet and half-carried, half-dragged him to the passenger side of his truck. The whistling, wheezing sound Weevil was making with every breath really didn't ease Logan's mind any. "Come on, I'll take you to the hospital."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'? You probably don't have a rib left in tact and your face looks like it got put through a meat grinder. You need a doctor." He heaved Weevil into the seat and put on his seatbelt.

"Can't. My grandma's been sick. We don't got any insurance money left. And I don't have the cash for a visit to the ER." Logan closed the door and went around to the driver's side.

After strapping himself in, he said, "We're going to the hospital. I'll pay. Consider it a loan." When Weevil made a mumbled sound of protest, Logan snapped, "Just let me do this. I don't want to explain to Lamb why I have a dead Mexican in my possession tomorrow morning."

He still expected another protest and was surprised when Weevil didn't so much as grunt in displeasure. Glancing over, he realised it was because his partner in crime had passed out.

The ER doctor had wrapped Weevil's ribs and given him twelve stitches on his eyebrow and the back of his head. An x-ray showed that there was no internal bleeding which Logan hadn't even considered. But he did have a slight concussion and the nurse said that he couldn't spend the night alone. They took off before the deputy showed up to fill out a police report.

That's how Logan ended up sitting on the chair in his suite's living room watching TV while Weevil dozed on the couch. He was supposed to wake him every hour and a half just to make sure that his brain wasn't swelling. Logan wasn't too worried. For that to happen Weevil would actually need to have a brain and if he thought confronting a bunch of thugs by himself was a good idea, then it was obvious he didn't.

His alarm clock went off at that point (he'd set it just in case he fell asleep, too) so he got up and shook Weevil. At first all he got in response was a light groan but when he shook him a second time Weevil grabbed his arm with a surprisingly tight grip.

"You wanna quit that before you lose this arm?" Weevil cracked open an eye.

"Just making sure you're alive. Don't mind me saving your life or anything."

"I'm never gonna hear the end of this, am I? Fifty years from now you're gonna call me up just to rub it in my face that I phoned you for help." Weevil looked genuinely curious.

Logan sat back down on his chair. "Well, you're assuming we both live another fifty years and given the last two, I think that's kind of optimistic. Face it, Weevs, we'll be lucky if we see our thirties."

Weevil's chuckle turned into a groan as he clutched his ribs. "You're not wrong."

"Want a Tylenol?"

"Yeah, man." He sat up, painfully by the grimace on his face, and accepted the glass of water and bottle of pills Logan handed him. After he popped a couple, he laid his head back and closed your eyes.

Watching him for a moment, Logan tried to figure out just how they'd gotten here. How it was possible after everything that had happened in the last three years, the one guy left that he trusted was Eli fucking Navarro. The mind boggled.

Logan wasn't stupid. He knew that this wasn't the beginning of a beautiful friendship. In the morning they would toss insults at each other as Weevil limped out of the suite. There was too much history there, too much bitterness with Lilly, Veronica, houses being burnt down and evicted from, for them to ever be buddies. Even if there wasn't, Logan was the rich prince of the 09ers and Weevil was the (former) gang leader from the barrio. Never the 'twain shall meet. Despite Weevil's predictions earlier, Logan knew they'd never mention this night again. Weevil knew it, too. Over the next few months Logan would probably find payments in his locker or mailed to the suite for the hospital bill. But that would be the only thanks.

He was pretty sure Weevil was incapable of uttering the word to someone in the 90909 zip code.

Logan was obviously alone in his contemplation as Weevil's head lolled to the side. Logan poked him in the shoulder. "Weevil, why don't you move to Duncan's room? There's an actual bed in there."

A mutter was his answer, but Weevil's eyes half-opened and he dragged himself to his feet. Watching him half stagger across the room, Logan followed closely, ready to catch him if he stumbled. Weevil eased himself onto the bed and his eyes closed almost before his head hit the pillow. Logan went back to the living room to turn off the TV and grab his alarm clock, resetting it as he headed to his own bed. As he passed the door to Duncan's room, Weevil surprised him by calling his name. "Echolls?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Logan grinned in surprise. "No problem."


End file.
